autumn too long
by prone2dementia
Summary: Plates are smashed. So are dreams.


autumn too long

_the wind_

At night, they throw plates—perfect, porcelain plates that shatter against unsound walls and unsound hearts—and Tom thinks that in every castanet _crash_, he can hear an echo of the past. An enticing echo, displaying what they once had.

He steals away to the upstairs bedroom, second on the left with an angry _Keep Out_ sign, and drags pale curtains across white stars and black skies. Then, when the outside world has been hidden away, he palms a worn phone. The screen is scratched and the numbers are fading, but it's not a landline, not a link on which his parents can eavesdrop, so it's safe.

Alex is safe, too. A safe person to whom Tom can release anguish and anxiety and—

_are-they-ever-going-to-stop-fighting?_

—anger.

But, tonight, something is different.

On the first ring, Alex answers in a hollow voice, "Tom?"

"What's wrong?" the other asks immediately, knowing instinctively that his friend needs help. Because Alex _never_ answers on the first ring, because Alex _never_ sounds hollow. "What's happened?"

"They..." stutters Alex, and Tom is scared because Alex _never _stutters. "They're coming for me."

Beneath Tom's feet, the old wood begins to groan as he starts pacing to and fro, to and fro. "_Who? _Who's coming?"

To answer the demand, Alex drags in a deep, shuddering breath, and his heave is akin to that of an ocean, preparing for a storm. "Them. All of them."

"Alex, you're not making any sense!"

"I can't explain it, not now. I have to go; I have to—"

"Wait, Alex!" Frantic fingers push at Tom's fringe, soaking up fresh sweat beads. "Don't go anywhere just yet! I'll be over in a minute."

His heart is racing as he tosses on a jacket, bypasses his parents (who are _still _screaming in the kitchen), and sprints out the door. Against the summer-kissed tree in his front yard, Tom finds his loyal, time-tested bike. Spurred on by a sense of urgency, he makes quick work of the lock and is flying down the street moments later. Wind, hot and sticky with the promise of rain, rakes heavy fingers through his hair. But he is blind to the sensation as he pedals down the road, recklessly fast.

The street lamps flash by him, even quicker than fickle firefly lights, and he is soon at the familiar house in Chelsea. As he dumps his bike unceremoniously onto the ground and barrels through the front door, he can't help but think _this is like my second home. _He can't help but think _Alex is like my brother_.

As always, the entrance hall is spotless, neat lines of shoes belying the cozy chaos within. For the first time in Tom's memory, Jack does not greet him, does not give him a customary hug or ask him _what's up_. Instead, she's chopping onions in the kitchen. Her back is turned on him, and all he can see are shaking shoulders and monotonous _chop-chop-chop's_.

Lank, red hair shields her face, almost as heavy as her admittance of, "He's in his room."

Tom thanks her and turns, switching on the lights as he travels up dim hallways and into a dimmer bedroom.

Darkness is unbecoming of the Chelsea house, yet despite all efforts, the darkness has come, settling in like an unwelcome guest. It's clever, though. Parasitic in its wiles. Tom can see it upon Alex's face, can hear it in the corpse-bone-rattle of Alex's voice:

"You shouldn't have come." He's kneeling on the floor, folding clothes into a black duffel bag.

_Methodical as ever,_ thinks Tom. "Where are you going?"

Shafts of moonlight slant across Alex's face, but they aren't the cause of his too-bright eyes. "Away."

"Why?"

"Why not?" the spy tosses over one shoulder; his attempt at flippancy crashes and burns.

"Just – stop." Tom's fierce growl contrasts starkly against the gentle hand he lays upon Alex's shoulder. "Tell me what's going on."

"What's going on," Alex bites out, "is an auction of sorts. And the highest bidder gets _me_."

At first, Tom is inclined to think that Alex is joking. Who would bid on a person, as if he were mere property?

"I don't understand."

"I didn't expect you to, but...in simpler terms, a few rival groups have decided that they want my services. Permanently. One genius came up with the idea of an auction."

Tom has never felt more naïve, more out of his depths. "And why don't you just tell MI6?"

"Because MI6 is one of the bidders, Tom."

"...Why?" He's repeating himself, but now is not the time to worry about such trivialities. "And why run?"

"It's..._complicated." _When is it not complicated? "I – Ben's here."

"Ben? Who's Ben?" Bewildered, Tom glances around and then nearly jumps when he catches sight of the man behind them.

Ben is leaning against the doorway, his back to the light and his face to the gloom. Calloused, skillful hands are hidden deep within his jacket pockets, no doubt like the secrets concealed deep within his mind.

Dark hair accents his face, just as Liverpudlian accents his reply. "I'm Ben." Then to Alex, he says, "Jack's ready. Are you?"

"Yes."

"And how about your friend?"

A pause ensues, in which the color—_was there any even left?_—drains from Alex's face. Now, the darkness is not just over him, but in him and swallowing him whole. Its mammoth jaws stretch and stretch, until there is no ray of light left.

Regarding Tom with shock, Alex says, "Tom? But Smithers said my friends would be safe!"

"Smithers likes to believe the best in everyone. They'll leave your more distant friends alone, but..."

Together, they pivot toward Tom, and Tom is suddenly possessed by a cold, cold dread. "What? Someone needs to explain this to me!"

For a long moment, neither agent speaks. Alex's eyes are fixed on a football, tucked halfway in his closet; Ben's eyes are circling the ceiling, almost as if he's trying to find constellations in disobliging stars.

Finally, the man says, "Tom—is that your name?—" Tom nods, and he continues, "Tom, you have two options right now. Either you can join us or you can return home. Under the circumstances, I'd say the first option will be much safer for you."

"Join you?" His ears are abuzz, and he's not sure if he's heard right, not sure of what's going on. "To where?"

"Preferably, the middle of nowhere."

"For how long?"

"As long as it's necessary."

Absently, Tom notes that Ben and Alex have something in common: they're both masters at being vague. "But...you still haven't explained _anything_ to me!"

"We'll explain on the way, if you join us. Right now, though, all I can say is that you're in danger." The way he pleas, so earnestly and imploringly, convinces Tom of the truth.

And upon being convinced, Tom shifts, realizing that this man is asking him to leave everything. To leave his life, his family, his pursuits. But he also realizes that, if he doesn't leave, he may no longer have a life, a family, or pursuits. He wants time to deliberate, yet there is no time to deliberate, and...

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood_.

...it's late, he's tired, and he can't think straight. "I – I'll join you."

_the rain_

Under the relentless night, the road stretches long and black and so very full—full to the brim with silence. Their car speeds along, a whisper of tire against tarmac, a whisper of _hush-hush-don't-tell-our-secrets_ into the ground.

Jack dozes in the back seat, with her red hair haloing a pale face, and she assumes an almost angelic quality as she sighs, softly like a sleeping summer sea. Occasionally, her brows are tugged by anxiety and her breaths quicken ever so minutely, but Alex always notices and is ready to deliver her from the shadows with a gentle shake.

As to the first of these actions, Tom wonders how his friend can be so observant. After all, Alex is sitting by the driver's seat, staring out the window and seeming to be lost in an ocean of thought. Of course, he isn't the only one. Ben, whose eyes are intent on the patch of highway illuminated by their headlights, grinds his teeth as if possessed by a bleak clairvoyance. At intervals, he cranes his neck, searching the vast distances for _something_.

Tom isn't sure that he wants to know what this _something_ is. After the initial explanation of why they are running, he no longer wants to hear about the treacherous espionage world. He's content with understanding the bare minimum, but even the bare minimum is more than he desires.

Alex's tales of bravado are far easier to accept, when they are mere thunderstorms in the distance. But when their bitter droplets encroach upon him, Tom finds himself drowning and dazed and soaked with too much, _too much, make it stop!_

Perhaps he's just a coward. He's not only scared of the reason for their flight from London, but also scared of how candidly Alex recounts the reason.

In Tom's mind, Alex's words are not set on pause nor play but _replay, replay_.

"_I'm sorry_," starts the train, and the wreck soon follows, "_you weren't meant to be involved. But I – I suppose I should start at the beginning._" Here, a tired exhalation. "_Do you remember Smithers?_"

"_The gadget man?_"

"_Yeah. This afternoon, he met with me in secret. He told me that due to high demand, my '_stock' _in the spying '_market_' had rocketed. And that wasn't a good thing."_

"_...I wouldn't imagine so."_

A nod. "_Like I said, several groups began making plans to kidnap me, but one group came up with the idea to create a pact with the others. They'd negotiate contracts and benefits. The group who could offer the most incentives received exclusive rights to _me." There was disgust, clearly evidenced by the pinch in his mouth. "_MI6 caught wind of this and decided to join the fray."_

"_Why? Why wouldn't they just protect you?"_

"_You must understand: For them, joining the auction is only Plan A."_

"_Plan A?"_

"_...Tom, let me give you all of the possible outcomes. One_: _MI6 wins and allows me to live normally. Crime groups, who refuse to_ _play by the rules, decide to kidnap me anyway. If they don't succeed, they go after the people I care about. Endgame for me." _He looks out the window, pulling idly at his shirt hem before continuing,_ "Two_: _MI6 wins and does not allow me to live normally, forcing me to work full-time without compensation. Endgame for me. Three_: _MI6 does not win, and I am taken by a crime group. They convince me to work for them by threatening the ones I care about and threatening me with torture. Endgame for me. Four: MI6 does not win but takes me anyway, forcing me to work for them. Endgame for me."_

"_Five,_" Ben interjects finally,_ "you try to escape."_

That's what they're doing. Or, at least, trying to do.

Tom has trouble wrapping his mind around it all. Part of him doesn't even believe in the reality of the situation, the possibility of success. It's all so sudden, so surreal... He feels as if he is in a dream.

(_A nightmare._)

At any moment, the sound of smashing porcelain or shouting parents may wake him. And he will be returned to his bedroom with its colorful posters and old, wooden floorboards and pale, plain drapes. And he will be safe.

He's waiting for that moment.

_the sky_

When the edges of the sky flare with a bloody red, Ben pulls into a little petrol station just outside of Liverpool. Under normal circumstances, they could have been here hours ago. But their circumstances are anything but normal, and Ben has made sure to blaze a random path through the country.

He and Alex slide out of their seats to converse softly by the car. Neck stiff and limbs leaden, Tom watches idly from within. Beside him, Jack stirs, smoothing at sleep-frazzled hair.

"Might as well use the restroom, now that we have the chance," she suggests, turning to him.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

Together, they push open the doors and unfold into the cool morning air. Crossing her arms to keep warm, Jack informs the others that they'll be back in a moment. With those words, they hurry over the pavement and into a generic store. The radio plays quietly in the background, but no other sounds can be heard. Not even a clerk can be seen.

Tucked behind aisles of brightly packaged crisps and eye-catching sweets, the restrooms are mediocre establishments. Tom ignores the accumulated dirt, but finds it harder to dismiss the scratched up mirror. Transferred onto his reflection, the myriad scrapes make him look as if he has gone through battle. He sighs.

As he turns the knob to leave, he thinks he can hear a muffled...something, and wonders briefly about what it is. Then the moment passes, the door opens, and Jack greets him.

With her mouth gagged.

With her eyes desperate.

With two men behind her, restraining her struggles.

And even as he registers this, he can feel himself being tackled. He kicks and tries to scream, but the endeavors are fruitless. His hands are bound and his mouth is gagged, and gruff commands are hurled into his face.

"The less you fight, the easier it'll be."

The man who speaks is clutching a gun. His hair is thinning, and his breath is acrid, and when he jerks his head gruffly, the pairs holding Jack and Tom start forward. The two victims are forced to comply, and in a matter of seconds, they're being dragged out a rear exit and shoved into the back of a van.

It's black and hot and stifling and uncomfortable.

Beneath Tom, the van's carpeting is warm against his skin and sticky with his sweat. He's in an awkward position, stretched out on his back, face turned heavenward. He wishes that he can see the sky.

He wishes that he can hear something other than the hum of the engine, the rumble of the wheels, and Jack's harsh breathing. He loses track of time.

Somewhere between the second acceleration and the fourth left turn, Jack shifts purposefully and Tom feels the cloth of her jeans against his calf. The gesture transcends reassurance, and abruptly the boy realizes that Alex's guardian is _strong _in her own way. Strong because of her golden heart. Strong like Ben, like Alex.

(Coward that he is, Tom realizes he can never achieve such strength. And perhaps it's for the best.)

Thoughts of Alex lead him to wonder about how his friend is faring. By now, Alex must have noticed their disappearance. Tom can picture Alex's stony detemination complementing Ben's eagerness to assist and sacrifice. (They're strong too, after all.) They're probably sitting in the nondescript sedan, discussing the logistics of a rescue.

Tom muses on whether Alex has given pursuit to the captors yet...

Probably not, since the van is traveling at a consistent speed. Yet around the seventh right turn, it starts to slow gradually, before sliding to a stop.

With a jolt, Tom thinks, _we've arrived._

_To where_ is a question soon answered. The doors are thrust open and pounding light pours in. For a moment, Tom glimpses an empty, grey lot before he is wrestled out and blindfolded.

Again, the darkness.

Half-jostled, half-battered, he is steered across the lot by the rough hands on his shoulders. Occasionally, his step stumbles and his breath hitches—bringing in the sharp scent of city air—but he continues onwards. Compliance is the only thing that will help him here.

From Jack's lack of verbal protest, it seems that she agrees.

Like sheep, they allow themselves to be herded through a building, down a hallway, and into a room. At least, that is all Tom can gather as he strains to perceive his surroundings with only sound, smell, and feel. His conclusions seem to be correct, however, for when the cloth is removed from his eyes, he finds himself blinking into a dim room, lit only by a line of fluorescent lights.

He is propelled into a chair opposite Jack, and finally there is reprieve.

Temporary reprieve, of course.

As the leader focuses on his phone instead of his captives, Tom stares around with wide, worried eyes. Wood panels bar up the windows, giving a distinct feeling of abandonment, a feeling that is supported by the lack of furnishings and the bleak, blank walls. The four guards, two standing behind him and two standing behind Jack, loiter in the shadows, almost as if they are a part of the shadows themselves. Two of them appear to be twins, similar in aquiline noses, light hair and sinister demeanor. Fearful and inexperienced, the third looks no older than twenty; and with swiveling dark eyes, the fourth appears Hispanic.

Those dark eyes are studying Jack, and their intensity worries Tom. Mouth suddenly dry and heart leaping, he glances between the man and woman. _He _seems almost predatory, and _she?_

She slumps upon her chair, hair plastered against sweat-dampened brows and eyes so indescribably _tired_. Tom looks away, reminded of Alex just hours previous, explaining the awful truths with such explicit, weary candor:

"C_rime groups, who refuse to_ _play by the – "_

_" – _hell are you, and where have you taken them?_"_

Startled, Tom realizes that the voice in his head has now bled with the voice that resounds throughout the room. It emerges from the leader's phone and bounces coolly off the walls.

"All questions shall be answered in due time, Alex Rider. For now, however, you may address me as Mr. Brown."

"All right, _Mr. Brown_." The trace of sarcasm is not lost in transmission. "What do you want?"

"Your cooperation."

"My cooperation?"

Mr. Brown sneers, carding an absent hand through his thin hair. "Let me explain a few things to you, Rider. None of the other groups expected you to find out about the auction, but _we _did not make the same assumption. We kept a close eye on you, and as expected, you ran."

"...Who is _'we'_?"

"My counterparts at The League*. And on behalf of them, I give you these instructions..."

Mr. Brown reveals their location, saying that Alex has half an hour to find them. Holding his breath, Tom waits for the revelation of what will happen if Alex doesn't arrive, but it never comes. Instead, the man smiles viciously and hangs up the phone, his disdainful eyes sliding over the captives.

Half an hour is too long but, at the same time, not long enough. The silence that begins it is oppressing, and Tom wishes for a clock to keep the ticks and the tocks and the ticks and the tocks, but there is no clock. There's no sound in the room except his rhythmic heartbeats. From time to time, he can hear the crinkle of a page being turned.

Mr. Brown's book, pulled out after the phone call, is a creased novella, thin and paperback. From his distance, Tom can't read the title, and although he is curious, he is thankful as well. He would only be able to read it if Mr. Brown closes the gap between them, and Tom doesn't want that.

He isn't sure of how much time has passed, until the man stows his book away and retrieves his phone once more.

"Mr. Rider. It's time."

Apologies on the other end. "Ten more minutes. That's all I'll need."

A pause, and then Mr. Brown glances toward Jack. "You've made a mistake, and it will cost you."

"What? No, please! Ten more minutes." Desperation emerges through, and Tom turns his head away, not wishing to hear it.

Without replying, Mr. Brown strolls to Jack and unties her gag. A silent command is given by the wave of his hand, and the dark-eyed man steps forth.

"Let me introduce you to Andre," says Mr. Brown.

"What the hell do you want?" Jack whispers, and the words are picked up by the phone that he holds to her mouth.

"Jack?" Alex's voice floats through, resolutely strong. "Are you okay?"

Mr. Brown sneers. "She won't be for long."

The next moment, Andre's hands are dragging through Jack's tangled hair. She trembles beneath him, and when he yanks unexpectedly, she cannot suppress the yelp of pain.

"—What was that?" Alex demands, angrier now. "What's happening, Jack?"

Her lips part, but Andre stifles her answer immediately with two well-placed fingers down her throat. Attempting to jerk away, she protests gutturally. Sweat beads glisten as they roll down her pale, exposed neck.

Tom is ashen, his mind registering the scene but not really processing it.

"The longer you take," Mr. Brown replies into the receiver, "the more damaged you'll find her. Consider those words carefully."

He ends the call and nods at Andre, who has yet to say a thing. It seems the dark-eyed guard understands that actions speak louder than words, and he demonstrates the knowledge by trailing calloused fingers onto Jack's shoulders.

Upon her chest, the locks of red hair are disturbed by her harsh breaths. She doesn't ask what he is doing, merely stares with widened, fearful eyes. As he begins to unbutton her rumpled, cream blouse—pulling at the buttons, one by one—Tom decides that he feels sick, hot yet cold at once.

The clammy hands of dread squeeze his chest. If they squeeze a little too hard, he knows that they'll tear him apart.

(_He has to do something. But what?)_

A particularly forceful motion is accompanied by a scared whimper, and Jack's blouse is gone, ripped away. Seconds later, her jeans follow and she's kicking mindlessly and desperately, breathless and helpless as Andre pulls out a gun, slipping its muzzle between her bare legs and—

"_Stop!" _The shout is inadvertent, drawing all eyes to Tom. "Stop, stop, please!"

Exchanging a meaningful glance with his boss, Andre appears thoughtful for a moment. Then much to Tom's relief, the man abandons his position by the woman. The relief is short lived, however, when he realizes that Andre is prowling up to him, lips twisted into a smirk.

"Little boy." The voice is low, hoarse, murmured directly into his ear. "You are a fool. Do you wish to take the woman's place?"

Tom can't reply, can't even swallow. He turns his gaze to Jack, staring so hard at the bright eyes and sparse freckles that he thinks he can see a shadow of her former self, one year younger before Ian's death and Alex's...

"I thought not," chuckles the man, and he straightens, beginning to twist away.

"No! I'll do it. I'll take her place." Tom suspects that he isn't registering the weight of his own words, but he doesn't care. Anything to save an innocent victim, as Alex would say.

"Stop it, Tom!" Jack snaps abruptly, a hint of her Southern heritage creeping into the words; and suddenly Tom is picturing a little girl skipping barefoot along the Alabama beaches, her red hair tossed by the wind.

He shakes the image away, forcing himself back to the present. "You don't know what he'll do to you!"

"You don't know what he'll do to _you!" _Jack responds.

The door bangs open.

"He won't be doing _anything_ to either of you!"

Quicker than any of them can register, four shots go off in rapid succession. One man down, two, three, four.

"I'll see you in hell, Mr. Brown."

Five.

_the leaves_

Half of Tom's face is splattered with blood.

It isn't his blood.

"We have to get out of here, Tom."

He jerks, noticing that he's no longer bound.

"We have to go!"

Numbly, he nods. His legs feel weak as he follows Alex into the halls, swiftly and with a distant sense of urgency. Beside him, Jack stumbles occasionally, but Ben is always a step behind, ready to steady her.

"Do you think there are any of them left?" asks Ben softly, speaking to Alex.

"We took down all of the ones guarding the front, but there's a chance that they have more backup."

"We should hurry, then."

Although Tom has questions, his curiosity is too dulled, muffled. He adds nothing to the exchange, and neither does Jack. In silence, they struggle through the dim passages, with its scuffed walls and shattered lights. Eventually, they reach the last hall and head toward the opened door, toward the blazing sun.

They're almost safe, and they quicken their pace, diving out onto the rough cement of an empty lot.

Then the barrage of gunfire starts.

Alex swears and ducks instinctively, prompting Tom to do the same.

"Where's it coming fr—" In the middle of his question, Ben falters. A choked cough issues from his throat, and his hands fly to clutch his stomach.

He's been shot, Tom comprehends belatedly, and the cold truth thrusts him back into reality. For the first time since their flight, he looks around, really _looks _and takes in the bleak landscape, the gray building behind him, and the road running parallel to the lot. Parked by the road is a dark sedan, their means of escape.

"Just a few more steps, Ben!" Alex urges, supporting the man.

And, still, the unceasing gunfire.

"C'mon, we're almost there."

To Tom, it seems like a miracle that no one else has been hit. Later, he will find out from Alex that it hadn't been a miracle, that only one or maybe two inexperienced guards had been shooting at them. But for now, he is grateful as he slides into the back seat, helping Ben in behind him.

When Alex guns the acceleration and blasts a random, reckless trail through the city, Tom is given time to study the extent of Ben's injuries. It starts as a crimson stain upon his shirt and trickles up to the pained expression in his eyes.

Silently, he gnashes his teeth, and Tom helps as much as he can but, in honesty, there is little he can do.

"This—" The man struggles and looks so determined that Tom doesn't have the heart to tell him: _Stop, you should rest. _"This city – I grew up here."

Tom nods solemnly.

"Thought it was the best – best place in the world." Ben's eyes close temporarily, before flickering open again. "Alex, have we lost them?"

The reply is soft. "Yes."

"Good."

His eyes close again, and this time they don't open.

_the trees_

"Sometimes, I wonder if it's best that I disappear. Everyone around me seems to die."

"No. It isn't your fault."

"But isn't it? My parents, Ian, Ben..."

"It isn't your fault. You're a victim of circumstance."

"...You heard that line somewhere, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

Alex chuckles, the sound subdued. Above them, the rustling foliage dapples capricious patterns across their faces, and in the wood behind them, Ben's body has been ensconced, laid to rest amongst tranquil trees.

Staring into the babbling creek at their feet, Alex sighs and watches the waters winnow over smooth rocks. "Jack's still waiting for us, you know. We should head back to the car."

"We should."

Side-by-side, they pick their way over the bank.

"Do you remember the first time that we met?" asks the fair-haired boy.

"Of course."

"Do you regret it?"

"Meeting you?"

"Yes."

"Not at all."

"Okay."

And it is okay because, despite what they've seen, they're still alive. They still have futures ahead of them. Places to go. People to meet. Dreams to chase.

Later, they find a sleepy town with a single motel. The girl at the desk smiles, friendly and eager to welcome them. She hands over a set of keys and tells them to stay as long as needed.

Jack thanks her and leads the boys to their room.

"I need a shower," she says. And even later, when she returns with her skin scrubbed red and shiny—as if she had tried to scrub, scrub, scrub away the ghosts of those violating hands—she declares, "We'll start a new life here. It'll be okay."

Tom ignores the slight shake in her voice—she's allowed a moment of weakness, isn't she?—because it will be okay.

At least, there won't be any more smashed plates.

_A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long. -_ ee cummings

* * *

end

* * *

*_The League_ is a name stolen shamelessly from Ichihime. Hopefully, she can forgive me.

And that concludes my only piece of real angst. Headdesk.


End file.
